I wash my eyes in the morning river of Kamanawa, And see the sun conduct a greeting, cleanly Of sky and cloud and wind caught in birdsong newly born, Of a peasant group firmly passing through the paddy fields, Of a rifle leaning on a rock, quietly ready: This way the Red fighter is welcomed home! I arrived three days ago. Again I am eager for more answers to questions like: How fares this guerrilla front of the northwest? What news of performance in the people's war? Not unrelated to the recurring historical queries like: What did you go out into the desert to see? What good can come out of Nazareths at the margins of society? How do we create together our freedom? How do we destroy imperialism, feudalism and state oppression? I think I recognize the pattern of three days' answers That somehow are unto the flow of the persistent river. The river holds the sun, strangely. The river repeats that Ama Monlinong, augurer of Kabunian, Died in his sleep, in the last month of his seventieth year; That many poor peasants now eat snails and greens in months of tabu; That the gongs still hang on the black walls of the houses of the rich; That three undesirable elements were expelled from the Party; While from the best sons and daughters of the mountains Three were sworn into service in the people's army; That Party groups are patiently and painfully rectifying Such errors as economism and incorrect class analysis; That two successful military operations were conducted Against the enemy and now are more rifles than men; That two comrades will be married before the harvest; That organizational work among the masses is too slow And lags behind political and educational victories; That a cadre will be promoted and transferred elsewhere. The river brings the morning news. In the movement of unevenness, the revolution is full of surprises.   The first answer is a dawning That the river is not of last year's dozen springs But of just yesterday's twenty-one. Another might burst forth tomorrow! The Party and the Army are in the river like the sun, And rearranged are trends and scheduled is the rush Against the class enemies of the broad masses. Unchained as yet by the collective mind, The answers gleam like pebbles in the running water, And linger unevenly like presences in the heart, Without a symbol, tracing contours of revolutionary love Even in the caesuras of the continuing political line. This morning the river flows through me as through the land, Now mountain and valley, now forest and clearing, Now mean and gentle terrain of my knowing. And I am glad to be here broken out of memories, In a fine moment of homecoming.